


A Gentleman's Guide to Love and Murder

by Bookshido



Category: A Gentleman's Guide to Love and Murder - Lutvak/Freedman, Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Victorian, Antiquated Descriptions of Race, Chaos, Cheating, Death by Gun, Drowning, Excessive Use of Sugar Cubes, Explicit Language, Extreme Classism, General Nasty Behavior, Letter Spamming, Multi, Murders That Look Like Accidents, Scantily Clad Women, death by falling, death by poison
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-24
Updated: 2017-06-24
Packaged: 2018-11-18 09:30:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11288475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bookshido/pseuds/Bookshido
Summary: Upon finding out his connection to the wealthy and mysterious Campbell family, Dean Winchester sets out to claim the fortune and title that his mother was cheated out of. Who’s keeping track of dead relatives anyways?





	1. Prologue

To whomever it may concern,

If you are reading this, I have been dead a good many hours and you have come to clean out my cell of personal belongings to give to my fiance. The journal you found this on is my complete memoirs as I have penned them the night before my execution. It details my whole life, my every crime, and everything I have ever known. You could call it a gentleman’s guide to love and murder.

Happy reading,

Dean Winchester


	2. A Campbell

_Two years earlier…_ **  
**

Dean stared down at the grave in front of him, a lump caught in his throat that he couldn’t dislodge, no matter how much he tried to push it away and force himself to step back.

“We are gathered here today,” the clergyman droned on as a little fall of rain began in the London graveyard. “To mourn the passing of a woman who was dear to a good many of us.”

Dean sniffed back his running nose and wiped away tears as he glanced around, looking past the grave diggers to see if anyone else had arrived. It was still only the four of them by the lone, shallow grave and his heart sank to not see more people had joined them among the ghosts. It was in the much poorer, back section of the graveyard, reserved for the few paupers who could scrape together a few pounds to be buried properly.

Mary Winchester was not one of these few. Her son was. A poor washerwoman could never have been able to afford to be buried in the same graveyard as the wealthy Campbell family. Luckily, Dean had been able to scrape together enough for a very modest service, a simple gravestone, and a plain casket to send the woman who had raised him and his brother to rest.

The casket was open and as the rain intensified from a light mist, Dean gently shut the lid. The gravediggers gently lowered the casket to the bottom of the grave and when they finally had to let it drop to the bottom it landed lightly, making Dean wince.

“Ashes to ashes and dust to dust,” the priest finished, shutting his bible with a thud. “Mr. Winchester? Please say your final goodbyes.”

Dean wiped at his eyes, walking closer to the grave so that he could see easily to the bottom. The priest backed away respectfully as did the gravediggers. Dean let his next tears fall without protest and loosened his grip on the single flower he had carried with him.

“You deserved better,” he whispered, tossing the single white lily onto the casket.

“All set?” one of the grave diggers asked him, pulling his shovel loose of the sod.

“Yes,” Dean said, his voice cracking as he spoke.

The second grave digger pulled his shovel loose and dug into the small pile from where they had dug the hole in the first place.

The first thud made Dean flinch and he closed his eyes, not wanting to see the dirt covering the casket.

After almost thirty minutes, they finished and the priest patted Dean on the back in an attempt at sympathy. The gravediggers shot him a pair of pitying looks before they followed the priest out of the graveyard and left Dean alone again.

He stood there in silence as the rain intensified and made quick mud of the fresh turned dirt at his feet. Slowly, Dean turned and made his way out of the graveyard, hands stuffed in his pockets and jacket snug around him to keep out what little rain it could.

* * *

The walk home was uneventful and the whole city was caught in a fairly heavy rainstorm. Even the little shop that his flat was over was closed and he had to go around the back and up the fire ladder to get into his flat.

Once he prised the window open, Dean climbed in, nearly knocking over a glass vase and spilling water all over the place. He shut the window quickly and moved the vase further to the center of the table. The simple movement was moot though as his clothes were dripping rainwater all over the floor and rugs. He hurried across the main room to the closet and hung his dripping trenchcoat in there before it could do more damage. Dean pulled off his loafers and went over to the fire place. With a great struggle, he struck a match and tossed it into the embers.

They took the flame almost immediately and he stirred them, coaxing them softly.

“Come on, light,” he whispered, adding kindling as the fire grew.

“It will light faster if you build a house around it,” a Scottish feminine voice said from behind him.

Dean jerked upright, slamming his head on the mantle as he was startled by the person talking behind him. When the spots cleared from his eyes, he took in the slim red-headed woman standing in the door of his kitchen.

“Can you spare me a cuppa your tea?” she asked, holding up a teacup and a teapot. “I didn’ want to be presumptuous.”

“Um, yes,” he stammered, looking her up and down in his confusion. “Let me get the kettle going.”

She smiled and passed him the teapot and cup as he headed into the kitchen. Dean filled his kettle and got it on the stove. He added a couple of logs to get it up to boiling and came back out to the doorway.

The woman had seated herself in Dean’s favorite chair and was reclining between the armrests with her feet up and close to the fire. The easy smile still remained on her face.

“How the bloody hell did you get in here?” Dean snapped, breaking the silence.

“The same way you did,” she replied, not moving or opening her eyes. “But before the rain, of course.”

“What are you doing here?” he asked, crossing his arms.

“Mind the kettle,” the woman said, pointing a finger into the kitchen.

He huffed and removed the boiling kettle from the stove. Dean looked over the two differents teas and selected the more expensive of the two. He put them into the steeping basket and set it into the holder inside the kettle.

“It’s going to take a few minutes,” Dean informed the woman.

“That is fine,” the woman replied, dismissing him with a wave of the hand.

There was a very tense silence as they waited for the tea to steep and for someone to break the silence. When the tea was finally done, he went back to the kitchen and poured them two cups.

“Have you heard of the Campbell family?” the woman asked.

“The Campbells?” Dean asked in confusion from the kitchen. “Yes, of course. Hasn’t everyone?”

“Then you’ve heard of Highhurst Castle?” she continued while Dean returned with a tray that had both of their cups, a sugar pot, and a small pitcher of milk.

“Of course,” Dean said, handing her the cup of tea.

“You’re aware, then, of their position; their vast wealth and influence?” the woman pried further as she added six (Six!) sugar cubes to her tea.

“Yes, yes, what’s it got to do with me and why you’re in my house?” Dean retorted, angrily sipping his tea.

“You’re a Campbell,” she declared, taking a calm sip of her tea.

Dean nearly spit his tea out but remembered how expensive it was and forced himself to swallow.

“What?” he wheezed, looking at her in shock.

“You’re a Campbell,” she repeated, setting the teacup down.

“No,” Dean stated, sounding utterly offended at the prospect.

She laughed deridingly. “Haha, the Campbell blood is flowing through you.”

“Me, a Campbell?” Dean asked in disbelief.

“A genuine, bonafide Campbell,” she said, patting his knee.

“Rubbish,” Dean muttered under his breath before taking a calming sip of tea.

“Of course, of course, you don’t believe me, do you?” the woman said, seeing the look on Dean’s face.

“You must be mad,” Dean declared, setting down the teacup firmly.

“Very well then,” she said, squaring her shoulders. “If your mother was not a Campbell, what was her maiden name?”

Dean waved her off. “She always insisted that the only name that mattered was… my father’s!”

Dean’s eyes went wide with understanding and he made eye contact with the woman. She had a triumphant smile on her face and continued.

“Your mother lived like a princess in every way,” the woman explained, pulling a paper out of her pocket and handing it to Dean. “The daughter of Lord Maximilian. Until she met your father one fateful day. She knew it was love, and yet, her family said she’d been led astray by a young man who wanted her position. They threatened that if she continued her relationship and married him instead of her betrothed, she would live to regret it. This was no idle threat.”

The woman made a puffed look in the face and used a fake male voice. “You’re a Campbell, a perfectly breedable Campbell. And a Campbell does her duty, don’t forget.”

She dropped the accent and continued again, “She eloped with your father the very next day.”

“So she was…” Dean said, swallowing the lump in his throat as he read over the paper. “Disinherited?”

“In a word, yes,” the woman said. “Despicable, the lot of them!”

“How awful,” Dean murmured, glancing over at the small picture of his mother and father on the wall.

She’d been kicked out of her family for daring to love the man she wanted instead of the man they chose for her. If this woman was telling the truth (Which he highly doubted), then his mother was stronger than he would ever be.

“Your mother made me promise to never tell, but since she is no longer living, I thought you deserved to know. That’s her birth certificate,” the woman said, patting Dean’s knee again.

“Take this knowledge and use it well,” the woman instructed. “The family may yet be forgiving. And that will guarantee you a right to be on the family tree and, frankly, I can see the family resemblance. They’d have to be daft to not recognize you as a Campbell.”

“You are the son of the daughter of the grandson of the nephew of the second Earl of Highhurst,” she informed him. “Repeat that back to me.”

“I am the son of the daughter of the…” Dean paused, not sure which family member came next.

“Of the grandson,” the woman supplied.

“Of the grandson of the… sorry, what came next,” Dean apologized, forgetting the next one.

“Of the nephew,” the woman supplied again, sounding irritated that he hadn’t gotten this far.

“Of the second Earl of Highhurst,” he finished, grinning now that he had gotten it right.

Then a thought struck him. Why should he believe a woman who might very well be insane? She broke into his house, demanded tea, and then produced a document that might very well be a forgery. But there seemed to be an air of authenticity about the document and as the woman revealed more, it became and more probable.

“I’m a Campbell,” he said, meeting her gaze.

“Dean, I picture you at Highhurst,” she said, rising.

“Yesterday I was Dean Winchester,” Dean marvelled.

“You could be an Earl tomorrow,” the woman pointed out.

“And Highhurst could be my-hurst!” Dean cheered, rising and toasting with the woman. “What is your name so that I can thank you for revealing this to me?”

“You can just call me Rowena, love,” she said with a smile, patting Dean’s cheek and handing him her teacup.

Rowena headed to the door and pulled a coat off of the coatrack that Dean hadn’t noticed before. She pulled it around herself and went to the window he had entered from. With a smooth movement, Rowena opened it and stuck one leg out so that she was straddling the window sil.

“Good luck, Dean Campbell Winchester,” she said with a wink before disappearing out the window.


	3. Letters One and Two: Barcelona

Dear Dean,

Spain is beautiful in spring, brother. I wish you could join me instead of being stuck in London under all of that bloody fog. Barcelona is full of sunlight and the streets are clean (Except in the poorer sections of town) and there is so much growth. The plant life here is incredible in an urban city: trees on every corner, flowers in every home! I wish such an appreciation for nature could come to London. Perhaps the people there would be happier, yourself included!

My current address is a room for let that I found above the Los Caracoles restaurant (It’s address is Calle de los Escudellers, 14, 08002 Barcelona, Spain). If you send it to that address, they will make sure to pass it onto me. When I get to America, I will be sure to send you a letter from my new address.

Sincerely,

Sam

* * *

Dear Sammy,

I wish I could write to you with better news. As you were aware, Mother’s state of health was a bit so so when we were at the send off last week and I wrote to let you know that the family doctor had confined her to bed not two days after you left.

It is my duty to inform you that Mother passed away from what the doctor called a ‘consumption of the blood’. Her landlord insisted that I had to clear out her things in two days time, so she was laid to rest in the Highgate Cemetery. I managed to use a few pounds I had set aside to give her the proper rituals and see her laid to rest respectfully.

I hope the hour is not too late that you haven’t already bought your tickets to go to America. Sam, there is news of the utmost importance that I must share with you and I daren’t write down on paper, lest it fall into the wrong hands.

Your brother,

Dean


	4. The Proposal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Prestat Chocolate Shoppe is an actual chocolate shoppe in England that has worked with the royal family for many years! It is still open.

Once Rowena left, Dean penned a quick letter to Sam and put it into his coat pocket. With a shiver, he headed out of his apartment and down the fire ladder again as the shop was still closed up below. There was no sign of the red-headed woman out on the street and Dean hurried to the post office. He dropped the mail in the post collection bin and decided to make a stop at the Prestat Chocolate Shoppe. He quickly bought the least expensive box of truffles they offered and made sure it didn’t have any orange flavored truffles.

Bela wouldn’t appreciate it if he didn’t come with a gift in hand. And it wouldn’t help her answer to his question if she had to taste orange.

* * *

The Talbot family housekeeper let him in with a nasty look and gestured upstairs.

“Miss Talbot is in her chambers,” the housekeeper snottily said.

“Thank you,” Dean said, smiling even though he was obviously not welcome here.

He ascended the stairs quickly, hiding the box of truffles behind his back. Bela’s door was directly at the top of the top of the stairs and he knocked on her door thrice.

“Come in,” a sweet feminine voice called from inside.

Dean slowly opened the door and entered the room, hoping that she was decent.

“Dean?” she asked, walking out to greet him.

Bela emerged from behind her changing wall in a stunning pink gown. Well, more of a light red. But he wasn’t about to tell her that. Around her neck was a beautiful diamond necklace and she was adjusting where it fell on her neck and giving Dean an excellent view down her dress.

“Dean,” she said in a more playful tone,

“Don’t you just love me in pink?” she asked him, grinning.

She walked over to a flower vase and paused, an uncomfortable look on her face.

“Would you please?” she asked, kicking her foot out towards him.

Dean sighed and kneeled down, lacing up her boot. He set the box of chocolates down next to her foot as she examined the flowers.

“Bela, I have something of the utmost importance to tell you,” he announced, rising.

“A flower for my hair? No, no, yes? No,” she asked him (well, more of told him) holding up two different flowers. “Violets? No, I tire of roses…”

“Sweetheart,” Dean said, trying to get her attention and accidentally bringing out the box into her view.

“Oh, you’ve brought me chocolates!” she squealed, turning and pulling the lid off before wincing and turning back around. “Oh no, I don’t dare!”

“Do you hate these earrings?” she asked, hands flying to her ears and dropping the lid. “Now the truth. Don’t be kind. I don’t mind because I hate them too!”

She removed the earrings and tossed them into the jewelry box and Dean took the opportunity to sneak over and put his arms around her waist.

“Oh no, no, don’t squeeze,” she said, spinning his arms and tapping his cheek with her fan. “Dean, you such a tease.”

He chuckled and went in for a quick kiss, but she had already slipped out of his grasp and kicked up her leg on a stool.

“Oh Dean, look, my shoes,” she cooed, running a hand up her leg and pulling the skirt up just enough to give a look at her elegant and well-shaped leg.

She pulled her foot back down and walked over to him.

“I have never met a man half as dear as you,” she said, powdering her face quickly and flashing him a bright smile. “You’re so clever too and you make me so…”

She seemed about to compliment him, but her mood shifted yet again.

“Why are all the men so dreary, Dean, and so deadly dull,” she said, slamming the powder puff down in it’s case aggressively.

With an almost predatory look, she walked back over to Dean and her face came mere inches from his.

“No one holds a conversation half a beautifully as you,” she whispered, dodging yet another kiss.

“Bela, there is a matter of some urgency I would like to discuss,” Dean protested, following her around the room.

“You haven’t said a word about my dress,” she complained, pulling out the skirt for him to see better. “Look, see how it moves when I turn! Two, three, one, two!”

She spun as she counted down and ended up facing the mirror again. Her skirt had flared out beautifully and Dean couldn’t help but wonder how much it had cost to make. With that much fabric-

“It’s a bit much for Clapham,” she mused, staring in the mirror and turning back to Dean. “But nevertheless, I shall wear it.”

He produced the box of chocolates yet again and she cast an almost withering gaze over them. Dean’s smile began to fade and he was about to put it away when Bela spoke again.

“Maybe just a bite,” she murmured, her hand straying towards the box. “Just to be polite.”

She drew her hand back and gestured at the back of her corset. Dean set the box down before rising and grabbing the two ends of the string. He threaded the last two holes and gently pulled on them to tighten it.

“Dean, that’s too tight,” she protested when he tightened her corset.

He sighed and put his arms around her waist.

“Dean, that’s just right,” she sighed happily, grasping onto his hands.

“Oh, what I put you through,” she whispered, caressing Dean’s cheek and leaning her head back against his chest. “I don’t know-” she grabbed a chocolate out of the box and held it close to his lips “-what I’d do-” he puckered his lips, ready for her to feed it to him “-without you.”

“Don’t you just love me in pink!” she cheered, spinning out of his arms and popping the chocolate into her mouth with a giggle.

“Bela, sweetheart,” Dean said while her mouth was busy chewing and not talking. “I found out something quite amazing today and I wanted to share it with you.”

“Ooh! Let me guess!” she said excitedly, sinking onto her loveseat and laying down dramatically. “You found out your father was actually the king of Spain and you are a prince!”

“No,” Dean said with a chuckle. “I-”

“Oh oh! I know!” she said again, sitting up and gesturing wildly with her hands. “You discovered that a family heirloom is worth millions of pounds!”

“No, not that either,” Dean said, chuckling again.

She cut him off yet again.

“Or your brother has just found a diamond mine and you are moving to the colonies in South Africa!” she exclaimed, her eyes glistening like the aforementioned diamonds.

“No. My mother was the daughter of the grandson of the nephew of the second Earl of Highhurst,” he expelled in one breath, grinning and waiting for her reaction.

“She was what?” Bela asked, her demeanor taking a turn for the worse and a frown appearing.

“The daughter of the grandson of the nephew of the second Earl of Highhurst,” Dean repeated.

“She was a Campbell?” Bela asked for clarification, rising to her full height. “I don’t believe it.”

“Look here, I have her birth certificate,” Dean said, pulling the crumpled piece of paper from his pocket and handing it to Bela.

Bela eyed him suspiciously and unfolded it, reading the paper quickly. Her brow furrowed in thought and she handed it back to him.

“It certainly looks real,” she conceded. “Who gave it to you?”

“A woman who worked with my mother,” he said, knowing that it sounded stupid. “They were good friends.”

“I see,” Bela said, pursing her lips. “She sounds completely trustworthy.”

“She said that because my mother didn’t go through with her arranged marriage, she was disowned and the family cast her out,” Dean explained.

“That makes sense,” she said. “But why should that change your status in their eyes?”

“Perhaps they will accept me in and forgive her now that she has passed on,” Dean suggested. “I mean, having another heir to their line must be a perk. Well, two if you count Sam.” 

“Dean, that is such an extended lineage and with her disownment…” she trailed off, going over to her vanity and putting on a bright pink lipstick that matched her dress. “I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but it would be a long shot for them to take you back.”

“I have to try,” he declared, taking a seat on the loveseat. “I owe it to my mother.”

“Well, if you want to, maybe they will take you back,” Bela mused, pushing her breasts up further in her dress so that they were nearly sticking out.

Dean’s eyes were drawn directly to the objects of her manipulation and Bela smirked, knowing that she had him in her thrall. She took her hands away and went over to her vanity. Dean shook his head and focused back on the matter at hand.

“Sweetheart, I came today to ask you a question,” Dean announced.

“Ask away,” Bela said, digging around in the drawers of her jewelry box.

“Bela Talbot,” Dean said, getting down on one knee and taking her hand.

He pulled her hand away from the box and the movement forced her to turn to face him. She had a befuddled look on her face and Dean took her confusion as his signal to keep talking.

“Bela, in the short time I have known you, I have never met a more bewitching, lovely, clever, and passionate woman,” Dean praised, smiling softly.

Bela’s confused expression changed to one of understanding and she went blank-faced as he kept talking.

“And I didn’t think I would ever find someone like you in all my days,” Dean said, glancing away, then back. “So, what I’m trying to say is that I would like to request your hand in marriage.”

“No,” Bela immediately said.

Dean’s smile dropped. “What?”

“I said no,” she repeated, pulling her hand out of his.

“But, Bela, what about our relationship?” Dean pleaded.

“It was never a relationship,” she said, every word a dagger in Dean’s heart.

“What about the Campbells?” he asked, drawing his last card.

“Darling, eight people would have to die for you to inherit Highhurst,” Bela said, turning to face him with a sigh. “And frankly, I’m not willing to wait that long.”

She turned back to her jewelry box, humming the Canon in D under her breath as she held two different pairs of diamond earrings up to the light. One was the pair she had first asked his opinion on and the other was a pair that he had given Bela for her birthday.

“I think I’ll go with these,” she said, holding up the birthday ones.

Dean watched her put on her earrings and headed for the door, dejected and ready to go home and pass out. The housekeeper saw him out with a sneer and Dean began the trek home. 


	5. Letters Three and Four: New York City

Dear Dean,

I don’t know how soon this letter will get to you, but I made the journey safely from Spain to New York City. The immigrations process is a nightmare! I never thought I’d have to deal with this for a little opportunity! Luckily,  The people in this city are beyond imagine; they are loud, brash, and I was nearly hit by an imbecile in their car. They were shrieking about how lovely the ride was and nearly hit a mother and her infant!

Dean, I am so sorry that the first half of my letter was so upbeat. I was halfway through writing my letter to you when your last letter arrived. I am beyond words. Mother seemed to be in the best health when I left and I wish that I had received the letter sooner. I would have come straight home. My only hope is that you buried her next to Father. She would have wanted it.

Sincerely,

Sam

P.S. The women here are of a different breed than those in England. I think you would enjoy it here very much. 

* * *

 Dear Sam,

Mother was buried next to Father. I had to pay an extra fee to make that happen, but I’m sure it will be  ~~worht~~  worth it. I’m sorry to hear that my letter missed you while you were still in Europe.

I’m glad you were able to make it to the United States with little issue. Please continue to send letters when you can. Hopefully, New York will be everything you wish it to be and your scholarship to Columbia will be worth it. I know you won’t throw away your shot.

Your brother,

Dean


	6. First

“I should’ve known that pig would fly before she said yes,” Dean muttered, looking at the ground as he walked back toward home. “I should have known that they wouldn’t want us in the family.”

He was foolish to have thought she would marry him. How could she stoop so low? His only claim to fame was a chance at an Earldom and an old family name. Not even his clerical work was worth noting in her book. Who could blame her for saying no?

He was even more foolish to think that she was actually in love with him. He was a fool for believing that first kiss. They could make each other breathless, but she had dismissed him like he was nothing but dirt on the bottom of her shoe.

He was even more foolish for thinking she could ever see him as more than he really was. He was no match against a man who owned a car and a manor in the country.

Dean pushed open the door of the Roadhouse pub and waved down the barmaid.

“Let’s have a drink,” he said gruffly, taking a seat at the bar and putting the coins on the wood for Ellen to take.

It was also foolish for him to think he would ever stop loving her.

As he drank, the thoughts turned to the Campbell family. In mythical fashion, they sit on a castle that is so high above that they are accustomed to looking down. They conspired with each other, condemning his mother to a heart breaking life she could hardly endure. And without a care, they disposed of an heir to their glorious family tree.

He could see himself as a man of respect, who commands attention. He could be Earl. He wouldn’t be cast away.

Who could deny? Now and then, pigs can fly. Who will look foolish then. Dean grinned and got up from the bar, hurrying out of the pub and straight to the post office.

* * *

Lord of Highhurst, Samuel Campbell:

Dear sir,

I am writing to you today to inquire of the lineage of my mother. She has recently passed on and in her death, a document came into the proceedings that connected her and thus myself and my brother to the Campbell family line. Her name was Mary Winchester, or as you may know her, Mary Campbell. I am not writing to seek financial gains; I am writing to inquire if there is a job opening in either Highhurst or one of your business ventures.

Please respond at the earliest convenience,

Dean Winchester

* * *

_Two weeks later…_

Mr. Winchester,

This letter was passed on to me to answer. And so I shall to the best of my ability.

As to my knowledge, there is no such woman as a Mary Campbell in our family lineage and I would advise against you continuing to investigate this. I cannot promise that you won’t come to great harm if you continue to claim lineage to my family.

There will never be a position open for you.

Wishing you would politely fuck off,

Michael Campbell.

* * *

Growling and clutching another copy of the letter he’d intended for the Lord, Dean hurried through the streets of London to Campbell Row. Campbell Row was the road that wound all the way around the edge of Highhurst Manor and was fabled to not be open except on Tuesdays, when the public was allowed to tour the castle and the grounds. Dean was taking particular care to keep his suit clean. If he was going to request an audience with Lord Campbell, he’d better look at his best.

Dean approached the castle, jaw dropping at his first up close look at Highhurst. His mother had never let him and Sam go onto the tours (Not so surprising now that he knew the truth) and it surprised him that a home of such size could exist in the outskirts of London. That had to be against some kind of building code, but no one dared to confront the family for their home. The Campbells wielded too much power.

Campbell Row was wide open, but there weren’t any cars or carts clogging the cobblestones like the rest of London. A sign above the gilded front gate announced that today was visiting day and there was a small line next to a ramshackle ticket booth to admit people into the castle. Dean walked straight up to the ticket seller

“Sixpence,” the ticket seller said lazily, holding out a hand for the coin.

Dean grumbled at the price and handed it over. The ticket seller handed him a simple scrap of paper and gestured for Dean to move into the second line for entrance into the castle itself. It took nearly five minutes for the line to progress through ten people to let them inside.

“Stay behind the velvet ropes and don’t touch anything,” the guard instructed after the pat down. “And if the Lordship should enter a room, don’t make eye contact.”

Dean nodded and entered the gates, following the brick path up to the front doors. He paused there, studying the huge doors and wondering how often his mother had entered. Dean took a deep breath and pushed open the door a crack. Dean slipped inside and watched a pair of children step off the carpet and go to look over some various items.

“I say, you there!” the thunderous voice trumpeted from behind. “Hands off that sword!”

The boy’s hand shot back and he took a huge step back away from the armor.

“Put down that book!” the voice shouted at his companion.

The young girl jumped and dropped the book onto the table.

A sharp faced, grouchy elderly man entered the room and pointed an accusing finger at the two children. They jumped back on the carpet path at his threatening appearance. Dean stepped back and hid behind a

“Isn’t it enough we let you look?” he sneered, looming over them. “And to pay all sixpence to stay behind the ropes!”

“I cringe when every farmer, or butcher, or carver, comes touching my banister, banging my armor,” Samuel lectured. “They finger every finial, they poke my cornerstone!”

The children kept their head down and Dean waited back in the doorway. He wanted to step in, but if he still needed to speak to Lord Campbell, he couldn’t risk offending him.

“They barge in every Tuesday with a sickening, thickening roar,” Samuel ranted, scaring the children further. “Get out!”

The children ran off and out of the manor and Samuel stormed off as well in an unknown direction. Dean entered the main foyer once he was gone and looked up at the portraits filling the walls. They all seemed to staring him down, telling him that he didn’t belong at all. That’d he’d better depart and not get involved.

The grey haired patriarch of the Campbell family seemed to be rehearsing a speech when Dean stepped into the library. Samuel didn’t notice the other man enter the library and sneak over to the desk because he was too busy making eye contact in the mirror as he rehearsed.

“I don’t understand the poor,” Samuel declared. “I don’t understand the poor. Who wants to be reminded of what they’ll never own? I’ll admit there are a few who have some ambition, say, the pickpocket, baker, or whore. But with those set aside because of the work they love and who are rising above, I don’t understand the poor!”

“To be so debase is in terrible taste,” he finished, adjusting his bowtie in the mirror. “I don’t understand the poor.”

Dean’s nose wrinkled up in disgust and he slowly set the letter on the desk by the books. He was about to make a hasty exit when the patriarch of the Campbell family spun around and began to advance toward Dean’s exit. Dean hit the ground and hid under the desk as the gentleman changed direction and walked toward the desk. He heavily sat in the chair and kicked his feet up on the mahogany, making Dean glad that he wasn’t going to get kicked in the face.

“There is one that I admit I am fond of. A bit of a drinker, mute, bright and astute, missing a leg, but a very good egg. According to mother, that bastard may be my brother,” Samuel muttered, drumming his fingers on the desk. “But we all ignore that and frankly we’re better off.”

He got up and began to march around the library again.

“Where’s the dignity?” Samuel asked aloud. “Where’s the pride? The ignominy? Putting the lame and the whore aside…”

His voice echoed the questions back at him like the portraits on the wall were replying.

“I don’t understand the poor!” he shouted at the top of his lungs, releasing the tension and making Dean wince as glassware rattled on the desk.

The Campbell patriarch stormed out and Dean crawled out from under the desk. He brushed off his suit and glanced around to make sure Samuel was nowhere in sight before he exited the library.

* * *

“Boy!” a sharp voice called from behind him when he exited the library.

Dean’s head turned sharply and a short, stout elderly man approached. He was dressed in the clothing of the clergy.

“It’s past visiting hours and I know every member of the staff,” the man wheedled, looking Dean up and down. “Did lose your way on the tour?”

“Yes, I did,” Dean agreed, taking the lifeline he’d just been thrown. “I’m sorry, Highurst is like a labyrinth.”

“Follow me, and I’ll set you on the right way,” the man promised, turning and heading back down the hall.

He left a distinct odor of alcohol in his wake and Dean nearly choked on the density of the fog when he made the mistake of walking through it. Even though Dean enjoyed getting good and drunk once in awhile, he knew better than to drink before a job or during the shift.

The man led Dean down through several hidden pathways (He’d have to remember them for later) and out onto the grounds. It was beginning to rain as they headed up a hill towards what seemed to be a small chapel by the edge of the property. A high bell tower stood over it and the bell inside seemed to be broken beyond repair. Zachariah pulled the heavy wooden door open and revealed the dark interior.

“Pray tell, are you the Reverend Lord Zachariah Campbell?” Dean asked as they walked into the church.

“That is my God given name,” the Reverend replied with a chuckle, shutting the door once Dean was clear. “And who are you, lad? Not many people get lost in Highhurst. What with all the velvet ropes and such.”

“I am Dean Winchester, sir,” Dean said, glancing to see how the Reverend reacted.

“Winchester, eh?” the Reverend said, a flicker of familiarity appearing. “I haven’t heard that name on these grounds in many a year.”

“My mother was a Campbell,” Dean explained, taking the plunge.

“Mary, right?” the Reverend asked, leading the way up the bell tower stairs. “Yes, I remember the day she left

“Mary was a charming girl,” Reverend Lord Campbell said, running his hands over the bell. He scratched the metal with the chain around his neck and turned back to Dean, not seeming to notice. “I’m sorry to hear that she has passed.

“But she broke her father’s heart. I never knew a woman so cruel and heartless as to leave her father like she did,” Zachariah explained, eyes bloodshot. “I’d say that’s part of why he is how he is today.”

Dean almost spoke, wanting to rise to her defense, but from the way the Reverend was acting, he hadn’t been studying the scripture, but rather the bottle. Not to mention the smell. His mind began to wander to thoughts of blood and what could be a quick and sweet revenge. But all those thoughts vanished when the Reverend tottered a little too close to the window and slipped out, barely able to grasp the edge of the sil.

“Dean! Help!” he cried, desperately losing his grip on the slick sil.

Dean hurried over and stared out at the clutching Reverend. The thoughts of revenge came pouring back in and he watched Zachariah struggle. The Reverend looked helplessly up at Dean and his grip slipped again. In that split second, images flicked through his mind on a reel, making his choice.

He mother, hands bleeding from the caustic soap she had to use on the clothes as she cooked dinner, a simple stew of rough beef and carrots. His mother and father not eating for days on end as he and Sam were given the last scraps of bread during those hard years when John had been unable to be hired. The grief that clouded Mary’s face when John had succumbed to a bad bout of flu. Her utter pride when Sam announced he’d been accepted to a top United States college. Her final dying breaths, whispering for Dean to take care of Sam and to make her proud of her sons.

Everything in her life had been brutal and yet his mother managed to make her world brighter. All that had happened to them could have been prevented if her family had allowed her to marry as she pleased. Flu didn’t kill the upper class. Consumptions didn’t claim the gentry. Mary Winchester could have been given the world she deserved. Sam would still be here, by Dean’s side.

And so, Dean did nothing as he watched the Reverend slip and fall. He looked away at the last second, wincing at the thud of the body hitting the pavement. Servants were already running and Dean raced downstairs, hoping to make a quick getaway.

“Oh my goodness!” a maid cried, nearly puking from the sight of the body. “You, sir! What happened?”

Dean froze in his tracks and turned to face her, not looking at the body either.

“I tried to save him,” Dean lied, glancing up at the bell tower. “But he slipped and I wasn’t able to haul him inside. My hands slipped from the rain.”

The maid sobbed and ran back to the house. Within minutes, it seemed that the whole staff was pouring out onto the grounds. Dean had been about to slip out the gates, but the main grabbed his arm and drug up to speak to the last man he desired to face: Lord Samuel.

The patriarch looked distinctly green in the face from the sight of the body and marched up to Dean.

“What happened,” he demanded, looking less queasy with each passing second..

Dean repeated the story, pulling his arm away from the maid as he spoke and gesturing at the tower. Lord Samuel seemed to accept the story and merely nodded as the officers from Scotland Yard drove up in their car.

“If you will excuse me,” Lord Samuel said, bowing quickly and walking to greet the police chief.

Dean’s blood ran cold and when he tried to leave, the crowd was so thick he couldn’t get by to the gates. Oh shit, oh shit, he was going to be discovered now.

“Dean, my dear boy,” Lord Samuel said, clapping him on the back. “I hate to interrupt you in such a tragic time, but I have only just received your letter and my son admitted that he answered it and reported false facts to you.”

“And what corrections do you have to his letter?” Dean asked, the underlying question slipping through his words.

“I do have a clerical position open for a person with your qualifications in my London accounting office,” Lord Samuel explained, shooting a glare at a young man standing nearby. “And we would love to have you. I have already spoken to your present employer and he has agreed to give you a small severance paycheck until you start at my firm on this coming Monday.”

“Thank you so much, Lord Campbell,” Dean gushed, seizing the Lord’s hand and pumping it up and down. “I won’t let you down!”

“You’d better not,” the Earl threatened, making eye contact with him.

As Dean shook the Earl’s hand, his mind drifted to thoughts of blood, revenge, and seeing Lord Samuel Campbell being lowered into his own grave as Dean himself took up the Earldom.

* * *

Dean, my love,

I understand that my refusal of marriage to you must have been quite a shock to you. But I feel as though I must explain myself.

Only a day before your own proposal, another man came to my parents and myself to ask for my hand. Lionel Hallward. I’m sure you have heard him name out there in high society. He has a sizable wealth of his own making and my parents have already accepted his request. Perhaps, if you were further up in the line of succession, they would have agreed. But alas, it isn’t so. Perhaps we can still remain friends through all of this nonsense.

Bela


	7. Mind Your Step

_Two months later…_

Dean, darling,

I know that you have been getting my letters. The postman informed me of such when he came to the household to take my last letter to you. I don’t even know if you are reading these, but I wish to be able to speak with you in person before next Thursday. I need to explain everything to you and I can only tell you this in person.

Awaiting your reply,

Bela

* * *

 

Dean reread the letter again and sighed irritably before tossing it onto the fire. He hadn’t heard back from Sam in almost a week, his new job was an utter nightmare, and it was killing him inside that he had left the Reverend fall to his death.

Because of an odd case of timing, Sam’s orientation and start of classes had fallen at the exact time when he needed to speak to his younger brother. Michael, his new boss, was a living nightmare and it was all Dean could do to not snap back at all of his nasty comments. Not to mention that he couldn’t sleep at night because he was always woken by nightmares of Sam letting him fall to his death in the same way Zachariah did. Cold sweats were a nightly thing and even moving out of his old flat and into a new one because of his new paycheck didn’t solve the problem.

Adding to the issue were Bela’s daily (Sometimes even three times a day) letters begging for him to forgive her and meet with her. He’d refused to do so and the letters became more desperate as the time went on. All of them seemed to be about the same thing: how much the marriage didn’t mean anything, and how she would have married him. Dean wasn’t buying it and refused to return her letters.

Truth be told, he shouldn’t have been even reading her letter. The Head Dick, aka Michael, had decided that everyone in the accounting office had to go out to a country retreat. This was beyond irritating because it was the middle of bloody winter and he didn’t want to do any company bonding with the pricks that infested his job. And so Dean should have been packing for the long train ride and preparing to deal with a person who had told him to kindly fuck off in a letter. As much as he had been hoping that his job would be with the head of the Campbell family, it turned out that he had entrusted his eldest son with the firm to ensure that he had a steady source of income. Dean just hoped that he wouldn’t have to sit in the same compartment as the asshole. In fact, the more he thought over it, the more he wanted to make his boss kick the bucket. 

So naturally, he grabbed a bottle of arsenic and shoved it into his pocket before heading to the train station. Some people never learn.

* * *

Dean’s fears were not realized and he found himself stuck in a compartment with two younger and more experienced clerks in the office. There was Kevin, who was obviously from the Far East and had moved here to start a better life. He was a sweet boy and Dean found himself taking the boy under his wing because Kevin just didn’t know when to take a break. And then there was Charlie. Charlie was a little off in the way he held himself and his voice did come off as more feminine, though his dress and hair suggested otherwise. It was a vibrant red and, oddly enough, he never seemed to need to shave.

The first two hours went by in relative quiet, save Kevin’s book and the scratch of Charlie filling out the weekly crossword. Then the refreshment cart arrived and they were all given cheap tea. Soon, the conversation turned to their jobs and he found himself actually liking their company.

“God, I wish he would just off himself already,” Kevin complained, irritably sipping his cup of tea.

“What do you mean?” Dean asked, confused.

“The boss himself, Michael Campbell,” Charlie said with an eye-roll. “He does nothing but bitch and moan about everyone and everything.”

“It’s really fucking irritating,” Kevin agreed. “New guy, you’re going to find out pretty quickly that everyone in the office can agree on one thing-”

“Michael Campbell-” Charlie began.

“Is a huge dick,” they said together, descending into laughter.

Dean chuckled and was going to reply when they train screeched to a halt outside the resort. They were there and Dean disembarked from the train, spotting Michael making a hasty retreat towards the resort gardens.

So naturally, Dean followed him.

Behind a large hedge, a brunette woman in a full length fur coat was waiting. She was wearing enough makeup to live in the red light district and he lowkey suspected that she did. Michael nearly ran up to her and she jogged over to meet him halfway.

Michael greeted the woman with a passionate kiss on the lips, making Dean’s lips curl up in disgust. So Michael was having an affair. Of course he was, the asshole. He could get away with everything and anything because he was a pretentious and entitled asshole.

Dean stealthily followed them as they made their way around the back of the resort to an lake that had no other skaters on it. They donned their skates and Dean was treated to a rather disgusting display of the woman’s nether regions when she disposed of her thick fur coat.

She was dressed in a pink corset that had a small bustle-like train attached. Her bottom was clothed with long black fishnet stockings and her skates were an equally violent shade of pink. And… that was it. That was all the woman had been wearing underneath the fur coat.

Michael helped the scantily clad woman onto the ice and his hand slipped across her ass in a not so casual manner. She giggled loudly and bent over so she could tie her skates, giving Michael a clear view of everything. She straightened up when Michael gave her a quick tap on the buttock. From Dean’s spot, there was nothing but giggles as they glided by and left him freezing on the dock.

“Dammit,” Dean muttered, shivering violently and pulling his coat around him..

There he was, with poison in his pocket. Standing on this godforsaken frozen little dock as he let his opportunity skate away. Dean shivered again and held in a sneeze. If only he’d had the courage to slip it in a pot of tea or else a shot of gin, he’d already be back amid the noise of London. But there he was, standing with poison in his pocket, one eye on the happily skating target, one eye on the clock. He’d better figure out a way to off this bastard before he lost his nerve and ran. If he only had a knife, he could have discretely knocked him on the head and stabbed him. Not to mention what he would have done if he had had a gun.

Of course, if he had thought far enough ahead, he might not have put the poison in his pocket in the first place. Damn, travelling all this way and he hadn’t even thought up a fucking back up plan. All the thoughts of ways to murder the sod were making Dean nauseous. All of them required close contact.

As Dean watched the pair skate past the dock, he suddenly noticed a sign off to the side of the lake that was covered in snow and unable to be read. Huffing, he broke from where he had been standing and walked over to read it.

“Thin Ice: Skaters Beware,” Dean read aloud, his head whipping around to stare at the couple who were attempting a jump.

How unfortunate if the young people ended up falling through the ice because of their own foolishness to not read the signs. It would seem that he had been handed an opportune solution. All that still remained was proper execution and he’d have to do it fast before it got too late. Dean began to grin, but then he remembered one little issue.

He never learned to skate. How the hell was he going to get out there if he couldn’t even skate? Tentatively, Dean stepped out onto the ice from the dock and slipped, falling and hurting his ass. He was more thankful that he hadn’t fallen through the ice like he was hoping they would. So he got back up and climbed off the ice, running the garden shed to get his needed supplies.

Dean took to the ice like a pro after his first fall, skating around a few times to put up the guise of calm before he pulled the simple hand saw from within his jacket and watched the pair carefully for the perfect moment when they stopped skating to get hot chocolate. Then he slipped down and began to cut.

With the steady rhythm of a violinist, he began sawing where the ice was thinnest and kept an eye out for the couple as they returned to skate across the other side of the pond. It had to be big enough that the two lovers had to meet their doom without being able to climb back out and the hole was quickly becoming that size.

As he reached the end of the hole, he began to feel a twinge of regret. Was that his conscience? Oh, well jolly good to hear from him. Where had he been when Dean had put the poison in his pocket and let the Reverend fall? Well, once he squashed the conscience, the whole task became easier at once and he barely was able to jump off the ice and dive into the rushes to watch the whole spectacle. Michael and the woman had decided to skate over to the other side of the pond.

The two lovers were so caught up in each other and their conversation that they didn’t even see the gaping hole in the ice and both toppled in with matching screeches. Dean peeked up over the reeds and watched in both horror and amazement as both people struggled to stay above water and attempted to climb out. After the first two times under, the woman stayed under and then it was only Michael, who was screaming bloody murder. In the last second before Michael went under for the last time, he made eye contact with Dean. The fear and realization set in just before another heir disappeared under the ice.

* * *

Dean Winchester,

Dear sir,

I’m sure you must be wondering why I am writing to you. As you have heard, your manager and my son, Michael Campbell died in a skating accident. I wish to offer you the position of manager in his stead. When I succeed in finding a better replacement, I can promise that you will be entitled to a position as a stockbroker at my personal accounting firm. This is the firm that handles my own and my family’s finances. Please respond at your earliest convenience.

Sincerely,

Lord Samuel Campbell


End file.
